


Romance, Thy Name Is (Not) Arthur

by Angelike



Series: It's Not Rocket Science [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Candles, Cliche, Fluff, Gift Fic, Humour, Innuendo, Love Bites, M/M, Making Love, Massage, POV Third Person, PWP, Podfic Welcome, Porn, Present Tense, Romance, Rose Petals, Satin Sheets, Seduction, Sex Toys, Valentine's Day, flatmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Telling your boyfriend that he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body less than a week before Valentine’s Day is apparently one of the worst things you can possibly do if your boyfriend’s name just happens to be Arthur Bloody Pratdragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance, Thy Name Is (Not) Arthur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravenflight21](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ravenflight21).



> This story was included in a vgift message. It was _intended_ to be a really short drabble, but obviously that didn't happen.
> 
> My thanks goes out to lasvegas_lights, ceirseach, and insertcode11 for their invaluable beta advice. You each made different recommendations for improvement and this story is better for it.

Telling your boyfriend that he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body less than a week before Valentine’s Day is apparently one of the worst things you can possibly do if your boyfriend’s name just happens to be Arthur Bloody Pratdragon. In Merlin’s defence, he’d been drunk at the time. Stupidly drunk. While sober, he knows better than to say anything out loud that might be interpreted as a challenge. (He’d learned his lesson from the Hamster Incident. He keeps a picture of poor Hammy in his wallet to remind him. Experience is a cruel mistress.)

Now, ordinarily Merlin might have enjoyed a little romance. He rather likes flowers and chocolates and candle-lit dinners and other clichés typical of the Hallmark channel. The problem was that the evil, spinster professor of his Neuroscience and Behaviour course had scheduled an exam for—you guessed it—February 14th. For once, Merlin was grateful that Arthur is such a repressed git, since it meant that he could look forward to coming home after that bloody exam to a nap followed by a six-pack of beer, leftover Chinese food, and his favourite season of _Doctor Who_. Maybe he still could have had that, could have persuaded Arthur that he didn’t require any grand gestures, if only he had looked up from his books long enough to notice Arthur’s decidedly shifty behaviour in the days leading up to Doomsday.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

As it happens, when Merlin shuffles into the flat after his exam like some sort of zombie, dumps his book bag by the door, and heads toward the bedroom to steal a much-needed nap, he is entirely unprepared for what he finds.

Merlin’s first thought upon entering the bedroom is, _Oh God—I’m in the wrong flat_. Except, no. He’d been too out of sorts to really take in his surroundings, but he’d definitely tripped over Arthur’s fencing gear on his way through the lounge. He is in the right place, for better or worse.

Part of him is impressed by the sheer audacity of it all; the rest of him wants to sob in helpless horror.

Some crazy fairy had apparently seen fit to clear the room of its usual clutter and cover every available flat surface with glowing, heart-shaped candles— _chocolate_ -scented candles. Merlin hadn’t known that chocolate _had_ a distinct scent, but apparently it does and that scent alone is enough to make him salivate. It is a special sort of torture—though it isn’t the candles that bring the tears to his eyes; no, that honour is reserved for the sight of his bed. As if the candles weren’t outrageous enough, Merlin’s very normal, very plebeian discount store bedding has been replaced by white satin sheets and an artful spread of—honest to god— _red rose petals_.

The entire display resembles a scene straight out of one of those trashy magazines for women. Or, you know, a holiday-themed porn set. The only thing missing is—

“Care for some champagne?”

Turning his head with trepidation, Merlin spots Arthur lounging in the comfy reading chair by the window, wearing nothing but an impossibly short black silk robe and an infuriating smirk. Beside him is a fancy ice bucket on a stand, complete with a bottle of (no doubt expensive) champagne. Arthur is already sipping at the bubbly alcohol from an ornate crystal flute.

It is official: Merlin has stepped out of reality and into a bad porno.

“Um,” says Merlin. “Does this mean I’m not allowed to, uh, sleep now?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Arthur shifts his legs so that the folds of silk fall _just so_. Against his will, Merlin fixates on the prominent bulge between Arthur’s thighs.

“Fuck.”

“Yes, please,” says Arthur, setting aside his flute to stand and stalk wolfishly toward Merlin. He takes a step back, some gibbering part of his mind grousing that he’d just wanted one night of peace and relaxation—was that so much to ask? Then Arthur’s champagne-sweet mouth is on his, deft hands divesting him of his clothes with practiced ease, and it is so easy to just give himself over. He can rest when he’s dead.

Merlin’s hoodie hits the ground, soon joined by his lucky T-Shirt, leaving his upper half exposed to the tepid air. Goose bumps break out across his skin, whether from chill or arousal Merlin really doesn’t care, not when Arthur is suckling on the hypersensitive point at the juncture of neck and shoulder that never fails to make his knees go wobbly with pleasure. Only Arthur’s strong hands on his hips keep Merlin upright, though not for long; once satisfied that his love bite would remain, Arthur unlatches his mouth and guides Merlin backward and onto the bed. Languid and pliant, Merlin stretches out on his back, surprised by how much he likes the slippery texture of the satin sheets and the tickle of rose petals against his skin.

Crawling to kneel at Merlin’s feet, Arthur meets his gaze with fondness, indicating the hole in his right sock, where his big toe is peeking out. “You couldn’t be arsed to find a sock without holes this morning?” Arthur asks as he rolls the offending article down Merlin’s ankle and tosses it over the side of the bed. The second sock follows.

“If my socks offend you, maybe you should be a good wife and pull out your darning needles.”

“Ungrateful wretch,” Arthur grumbles, swatting at Merlin’s thigh good-naturedly. “Lift up.”

Bracing himself on his forearms, Merlin obeys, watching through lidded eyes as Arthur peels his trousers and pants off in one smooth motion. Then he’s naked under his lover’s appreciative gaze. Exhaustion has kept arousal at bay thus far, but his blood is pumping now, nerves aching for touch, and his cock twitches in anticipation. From where he’s kneeling, Arthur is in prime position to deliver a blow job; considering the way Arthur’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips when his eyes lock on Merlin’s groin, they are on the same page on that account.

Merlin parts his legs invitingly.

But Arthur only shakes his head. “No, not yet. Roll over onto your belly.”

Merlin blinks, dumbstruck. “What?” Surely after having orchestrated such an extravagant scene, Arthur isn’t going to forgo all semblance of foreplay and skip straight to the main course? Arthur _loves_ foreplay—and, anyway, Merlin vehemently dislikes being taken from behind. Arthur knows that. The request simply doesn’t make sense, not unless Arthur is planning on rimming him, which, yeah: that is sort of gross. Maybe a day will come when the very idea doesn’t make him shudder in distaste, but today is not that day.

Responding to Merlin’s uncertainty, Arthur prowls up the bed to suckle and nip coaxingly at his lips until the knot of anxiety that has settled in his belly loosens and dissipates. “Trust me. Just let me take care of you,” Arthur whispers between kisses. “You’re always taking care of me—let me return the favour for once.”

“Yes. Okay. Yes.”

So Merlin rolls to lie on his belly, breaths hitching as his cock slides against the sheets. Inhaling bracingly, he presses his cheek against a pillow. Arthur moves above him, reaching to pull something out of the top drawer of the nightstand: a bottle of massage oil, which definitely hadn’t been there before. Something tightens in Merlin’s chest, something giddy and happy, and he has to bury his face in the pillow to hide his idiotic grin. Arthur has put a lot of thought into this insanity.

When Arthur straddles Merlin’s hips, Merlin’s suspicion that Arthur isn’t wearing anything underneath that skimpy robe is confirmed. The feel of cock and balls pressed flush against his bottom is all it takes to bring his own cock to full arousal, which turns out to be a less than comfortable experience given that he is pinned to the bed.

The shock of Arthur’s oil-slick hands kneading at his shoulders is a revelation.

“Oh, God.” Merlin squirms uneasily, stifling a gasp. He honestly can’t say whether that hurts or feels good. Maybe both? “Ar-Arthur.” Being the evil bastard that he is, Arthur merely chuckles and bears down more forcefully.

“You’re so tense.”

Merlin hums in agreement—and he might have thrown out a few token complaints, just to get a rise out of Arthur, but before he can, his lover locates a pressure point that makes days and days worth of built up stress and misery melt away like butter on a hot summer day. “That feels amazing,” he says, the words little more than a satiated sigh. He has never felt so relaxed in his life, not without the aid of a really good orgasm. It is official: Arthur needs to drop out of school and become his rent-boy/masseuse. His talents are wasted on engineering.

Gradually Arthur’s hands drift down from his shoulders, fingers then palms kneading hard along Merlin’s spine and then gently down the sensitive flesh along his ribs and waistline, pausing only when he reaches Merlin’s buttocks. Inching back in order to gain access to his prize, Arthur caresses over the warm, round globes of Merlin’s arse in a blatant tease. “Shall I continue on to your legs,” Arthur asks, “or would you prefer something a little more—” A single digit probes lightly at the puckered opening of Merlin’s most private place. “—intimate?”

Merlin whimpers pitifully.

“I don’t think I can move.”

“You don’t have to. Leave everything to me. I’m going to make you feel so good, baby, so very good.”

Slowly, carefully, Arthur eases that one teasing digit past the tight ring of muscle, opening him up. The second and third fingers join the first with ease, his entire body far too relaxed to put up much resistance; he relishes in the delicious stretch and burn. His cock throbs in agonized delight against his belly, leaking pre-come into the sheets. Instinctively, his hips thrust against the bed, searching frantically for friction that isn’t there.

“Ugh.”

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it. Let me in.”

Unable to bear the cruel tease of fingers alone even a moment more, Merlin whirls onto his back, lunges forward to take Arthur by the shoulders, and drags him down to catch his mouth in a filthy, bruising kiss. Merlin takes care to lick into his lover’s mouth in that particular way that drives Arthur mad. When he pulls back to murmur his own desperate plea, saliva wet between their lips, he isn’t the only one shuddering with want. “God, Arthur, _please_ ,” he begs. “Just fuck me already!”

“No,” Arthur hisses out through clenched teeth, “not tonight. Tonight I’m going to make love to you.”

And then Arthur’s stripping off that ridiculous robe and slicking up his cock and pushing into him so gentle so lovely so wonderful so—

So perfect.

“I think you killed me,” Merlin pants, awestruck, when it’s all over. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make the room stop spinning, and manfully resists the urge to entwine his fingers with those of the hand possessively splayed on his chest. The sex was ~~fucking amazing~~ good, but that is no reason to act like a big girl’s blouse.

He can’t help but mewl in protest when the hand on his side is removed and Arthur’s warm bulk at his back disappears. Blinking his eyes open, he searches out his errant lover, only to find him perched on the edge of the bed, digging through the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

“Arthur what are you doing?”

With a quiet “Ah ha!”, Arthur turns, brandishing a glittery pink vibrator in one hand and a matching cock ring in the other. The wicked grin on his face strikes terror into Merlin’s heart.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you? Silly boy.”

* * *

By the time his morning alarm goes off, Merlin’s arse hurts, his cock hurts, his throat hurts, his _everything_ hurts. He hates the world and wants to die.

“So, was last night romantic enough for you?”

Arthur is _so_ lucky that Merlin can’t move right now, or his stupid face would be sporting a broken nose. The comment does spark a burst of memory, however, so at least now he knows what had brought on the latest episode of über-prattish behaviour. He is never drinking with Morgana or Gwen again. Strike that. He is never drinking again—period.

Also, he is totally dumping Arthur and finding a new boyfriend.

“You’re a passive aggressive arse, you know that?”

“If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be late for your morning tutorial.”

“I hate you.”


End file.
